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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063453">Shadows of the Past</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverocknroll/pseuds/Maverocknroll'>Maverocknroll</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Notorious [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, M/M, Spellplague, more penis jokes than you can shake a dick at, sassmasters, they're like an old married couple, you might hate me but I promise I'll fix it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:41:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maverocknroll/pseuds/Maverocknroll</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarlaxle and Entreri have settled in Baldur's Gate, only for trouble to find them yet again. Trouble, this time, comes in the shape of a Netherese man named Draygo Quick, who has more than a passing interest in Entreri's blade... and in Entreri himself.</p>
<p>(Pre-<i>Neverwinter Saga</i>, in the aftermath of the Spellplague. Those of you who have read that far in canon can probably guess where this is going. I apologize in advance.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jarlaxle Baenre/Artemis Entreri</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Notorious [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1057391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heyyyyyyy so. Long time no post. This year has kicked my ass, and this fic fought me. A lot. There's so much that canon either does not explain about this part of Jarlaxle and Entreri's lives or does not explain <i>well</i>, which was anxiety-inducing, so eventually I just went "fuck it" and threw words at the wall. Not my <i>best</i> work and probably not 100% canon-compliant, but I hope you have as much fun spending time with these characters as I did!</p>
<p>The fic is already written. I will be posting a chapter a week, but fair warning: do not expect a happy ending <i>this</i> time. This isn't the end of the series, though, so there's hope for the idiots yet.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jarlaxle held a bouquet of wands, plucking them free one at a time and sighing as he cast them off like a little girl counting petals: <em>he loves me… he loves me not…</em></p>
<p>“I imagine they’re all dead,” Entreri rumbled from his side of the bed. He had cleaned out his magic items weeks ago, sorting them into two neat little piles on the table (<em>keep</em> and <em>toss</em>), and he’d tossed and kept each item accordingly. Jarlaxle, however, had been putting it off.</p>
<p>“And yet, you know I must check them all,” Jarlaxle said forlornly. His toys were not so much in “piles” as “burial mounds”, spilling over the bed and onto the floor, and Entreri’s fingers itched to collect and neaten them. “Do you know how much this Wand of Teleportation cost?” Jarlaxle asked, brandishing a sleek black wand.</p>
<p>“Your dignity?”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle’s face pinched into a scowl. “More than this month’s rent.” His shoulders heaved with another sigh as he tossed it into the discard pile. “Now worthless.”</p>
<p>“And your contacts are certain they cannot re-enchant it?” Entreri pressed, but Jarlaxle was shaking his head before the question was finished.</p>
<p>“You mean the ones the plague didn’t kill?” Jarlaxle muttered, pulling free the next one, this one a deep, shimmering purple. “There is no new magic to re-enchant it <em>with</em>. It is quite unfair.”</p>
<p>“Do you think they are safe to use for kindling?” Entreri asked as he saw Jarlaxle toss one, two, three more wands into the discard pile, where a couple rolled freely along the floor. At a wounded look from Jarlaxle, he asked, “What? They might as well have a use!”</p>
<p>“You have no sentimentality,” Jarlaxle sniffed, reaching into his hat for the next handful of items.</p>
<p>“They’re wands. What have I to be sentimental about? Or have you other uses for the wands I don’t need to consider?”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle snorted. “Well, not <em>these</em> wands.” He winked and laid out the trinkets on the bed in front of him. “At least the Bags of Holding still work.” He dusted off the obsidian Nightmare figurine, setting it in the regrettably small “keep” pile. “And the weapons.”</p>
<p>Entreri hummed distractedly, ignoring Jarlaxle and going back to the book he was half-heartedly reading.</p>
<p>“Too bad about the potions, however,” Jarlaxle went on. He pulled off his hat, slumping back against the headboard and fiddling with the feather. The diatryma feather still worked, thank the gods, but this Spellplague had cost Jarlaxle a fortune. His hand brushed up to his eyepatch, the images through it dimmer than they used to be.</p>
<p>“I want pie,” he announced suddenly, turning pleading eyes on Entreri.</p>
<p>“Mm.” Entreri blinked, brow furrowing. “Pie?”</p>
<p>“I am in need of consolation, <em>mal’ai</em>.”</p>
<p>“In… the form of pie?”</p>
<p>“We need to stop by the bakery for bread, anyway. And I have a list of items we could <em>try</em> to replace, while we’re out.” Jarlaxle was already rummaging for Agatha’s Mask.</p>
<p>Entreri looked up from the book to consider the mess Jarlaxle had made of the room, the contents of his Bag of Holding consuming most of the bed and half of the floor. “After you clean,” he muttered, turning the page and ignoring Jarlaxle again.</p>
<p>“Of course!” Jarlaxle’s beaming smile slipped when he realized that his Wand of Cleansing was in the discard pile. “Ah.” He considered the grand piles around him. “Kindling, you said?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he walked the platform to Sorcere, it was impulse for Kimmuriel to look up at Narbondel, the great “clocktower” of Menzoberranzan. To see it dead, lightless, still jarred him, a reminder of the chaos the Spellplague had wrought. As a drow, he should be reveling in that chaos—they all should—and yet…</p>
<p>Kimmuriel did not let himself finish that thought. He <em>was</em> reveling, a little, in the fear and panic that pulsed at the edges of the mages’ minds—the mages who still had minds, that is. The Spellplague had torn Horroodissomoth’s mind open like a grapefruit, after all, and now there was nothing left of him but a scorch mark on stone. Kimmuriel could make a show of his psionics, could levitate up the stairs if he wanted, just to remind them all that he could, that his magic was not of the Weave, that his abilities, unlike theirs, were as strong as ever.</p>
<p>Yet Kimmuriel walked up the stairs. A concealed dagger was often the most useful dagger, particularly when one had a meeting with the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.</p>
<p>Gromph sat behind his desk, as careful and composed as ever, his mind a steel trap. That Narbondel remained dark, however, told Kimmuriel that his magic, while still present, was not what it was.</p>
<p>“I called for Jarlaxle,” was Gromph’s greeting. He did not look up from the scroll he was studying.</p>
<p>“You called for Bregan D’aerthe,” Kimmuriel corrected without inflection, without any outward indication of insult.</p>
<p>Gromph’s eyes flicked up to stare at him.</p>
<p>“I currently represent Bregan D’aerthe in Menzoberranzan, a fact you well know.” Kimmuriel’s tone remained polite, distant, matter-of-fact.</p>
<p>Gromph snorted, gathering his papers together. “An implication that there is a Bregan D’aerthe outside of Menzoberranzan? I thought Jarlaxle had given up that foolishness in Calimport.”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle had plenty of foolishness still in him, but Kimmuriel was not about to say as much to Gromph. The memory of the Crystal Shard still stung these few years later, and he wondered, fleetingly, if the Spellplague would have ridden them of that headache.</p>
<p>Gromph’s lips pressed thin as Kimmuriel remained silent. “The city is in upheaval. He’s had his fun traipsing about the surface, but it is time for him to return, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Kimmuriel let the sting of that dismissal roll over him. Was that Gromph’s opinion or House Baenre’s? A reminder that it was <em>Jarlaxle</em> who held Baenre’s favor, not Kimmuriel?</p>
<p>For all that Kimmuriel still had his abilities, they had lost many—<em>too</em> many—talented Bregan D’aerthe mages to the plague. Their enchantments were gone, their magic items and potions dead. They were running as blind as any other House.</p>
<p>And Jarlaxle had left Kimmuriel alone at the helm.</p>
<p>Shrugging off the cold discomfort settling in his stomach, Kimmuriel asked, “What is it that you need of Bregan D’aerthe, Archmage?”</p>
<p>Gromph hummed, looked him over as though assessing if he were worth the time. “Just information, at the moment. I would like you to observe House Xorlarrin.”</p>
<p>“Observe?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Xorlarrin was the House most deeply affected by the plague. Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin had prided herself on her powerful mages and had ridden then—literally and figuratively—to a seat at the Council. They had fallen silent since the Spellplague, fortifying themselves within their home.</p>
<p>Was House Baenre looking for weakness, an opportunity to strike? Without their mages, House Xorlarrin was no threat to the ruling House. It would not be like Matron Quenthel Baenre to waste her resources when another, lower-ranking House was more likely to do that work for her.</p>
<p>“Gladly,” Kimmuriel said with a nod. Gromph did not need to know that Xorlarrin was already under observation, on the gold of another House, just below them.</p>
<p>“And <em>just</em> observe.” Gromph pierced him with another stare. “And report only to me.”</p>
<p>Kimmuriel’s blink was the only outward indication of his surprise. So House Baenre was <em>protecting</em> House Xorlarrin?</p>
<p>Or just Gromph? Kimmuriel resisted the urge to prod at his mind. He knew how poorly that would go.</p>
<p>“I see,” he said, mentally backpedaling. He knew better than to deny a Baenre, but House Mizzrym would not be pleased with the breach in contract. The last thing Kimmuriel wanted to face was an angered Matron, and he longed for the days when such was <em>Jarlaxle’s</em> job.</p>
<p>He longed for the days when his hours were filled with study, not this political nonsense.</p>
<p>“And in return?” Kimmuriel hazarded.</p>
<p>Gromph answered with a look that said he was offended at the prospect that he would need to <em>pay</em> for anything from him. But Kimmuriel held firm, none of his trepidation showing on his face.</p>
<p>“Most of your magical trinkets are worthless now, yes?” Gromph said, leaning back in his chair, the back shaped like a stylized spider, two legs serving as armrests. “I could be persuaded to replace a few.” He waved a hand like it was not worth his time, but Kimmuriel wondered if the truth were that he could <em>only</em> replace a few. There was blood in the air, but Kimmuriel couldn’t figure out whose.</p>
<p>“Pleased to be of service to House Baenre,” Kimmuriel said with an elegant bow.</p>
<p>And—ah. The barest tightening of Gromph’s expression told him everything he needed to know: this was a favor for <em>Gromph</em>, not for House Baenre.</p>
<p>As he left the way he came, Kimmuriel wondered what mess he had just stepped into.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In Entreri’s former line of work, patience was a skill he kept as sharp as his blades. A reckless assassin was a dead assassin, and he would spend many days, week, months studying a target before striking. He could stand perfectly still for hours, silent, while waiting for the perfect opportunity.</p>
<p>Yes, Artemis Entreri had once considered himself a patient man. And then he had met Jarlaxle.</p>
<p>“Why is the line so long today?” Jarlaxle asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he craned his neck, trying to see over everyone’s heads. “This is most inconvenient! Don’t they know I’m hungry?” He gestured theatrically at the people ahead of them, queued up at Jarlaxle’s favorite bakery.</p>
<p>“Talk a little louder, and I am sure all of Baldur’s Gate will know,” Entreri drawled.</p>
<p>Jarlaxle huffed. Today, Agatha’s Mask gave him fair skin and golden ringlets that curled past his shoulders. Entreri refused to get used to it.</p>
<p>“Spellplague,” Entreri reminded Jarlaxle. “The bakeries the nobles frequent in the Upper Districts relied heavily on magic to produce all their frilly cakes and such.” He curled his lip distastefully. “They’re the only ones who could afford to.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Jarlaxle sighed, nodding in understanding. “But they lack the skill with their hands to now keep up with their clientele.” His gaze flit meaningfully down the dress of the woman in front of them, particularly to the hem, still crisp and tidy in a way that said she did most of her journeying by carriage. Peeking out under the plain coat disguise, her dress was a rich plum, the sort of dye no one who lived in this part of the city could afford. Rich enough to live in the Upper Districts, poor enough to not have a servant running this particular errand for her.</p>
<p>The baker, a woman with a thick face and wispy gray hair, stepped out of the bakery, wiping flour-caked fingers on her apron. The tense set of her jaw and the way her gaze skittered away from her waiting customers told Entreri he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.</p>
<p>“I am sorry,” she informed the crowd with an obsequious bow of her head, “but the bakery is closed to new orders through the weekend.”</p>
<p>The lady in the plum dress tutted indignantly. “We have been waiting out in the sun for hours!”</p>
<p>Entreri rolled his eyes, aware it had only been a few minutes. “Certainly feels like it,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“But-!” Jarlaxle protested, eyes wide and woeful.</p>
<p>“We can have stew without bread for a few nights,” Entreri assured him, tugging on Jarlaxle’s sleeve and trying to steer him away. “She’s clearly just received a big order.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Ah! Yes, for the ball, I imagine.” Jarlaxle looked wistfully at a blueberry pie cooling in the window. “So long, my sweet,” he cooed at it as Entreri pulled him away.</p>
<p>“What ball?”</p>
<p>Baldur’s Gate had been a mess since the Spellplague had hit. They had not realized how much magic had been the foundation of their economy until it was ripped out from under them. Trade had ground to a halt, and many had gone from living comfortably to starving in a matter of days. Jarlaxle and Entreri had watched the occasional looting from the comfort of their apartment, sipping from one of the many, many bottles of wine Jarlaxle had collected over the long months.</p>
<p>Who would be foolish enough to throw a ball in the midst of this unrest?</p>
<p>Jarlaxle gave him a sly look, and the promise of intrigue was enough, finally, to pull his mind away from sweets. “Those weren’t trade caravans that passed through the gates earlier,” he said. “The Grand Dukes are looking to impress <em>someone</em>.”</p>
<p>Entreri scoffed. “The wealthy are the same everywhere,” he sneered, turning his back on the line that was slowly turning into a shouting mob outside the bakery. “The people starve, and yet they feast.”</p>
<p>“Depends on who was in that caravan,” Jarlaxle pointed out. “If the Grand Dukes are maneuvering politically, it might be the right call, as callous as it looks from where we are standing. Besides, would you not consider yourself ‘wealthy’, at this point in your career, Master Entreri?” Jarlaxle curled an arm inside of Entreri’s, batting his eyelashes. “How is it you called it? ‘Well-endowed’?”</p>
<p>“That’s what <em>you</em> called it!” Entreri protested. “And I earned what I have. I also don’t go throwing it about.”</p>
<p>“If you earned it, what would be so wrong in throwing it about?”</p>
<p>Entreri hated when Jarlaxle asked such probing questions. He particularly hated it when he didn’t immediately have an answer. “It’s wasteful.”</p>
<p>“Of what?” Jarlaxle laughed. “You were the highest-paid assassin on the Sword Coast, <em>mal’ai</em>. I know what assassins are paid.”</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“And I know it would take quite a bit of waste to put a dent into your savings. And that, by spending it, you put that coin into the pockets of others less wealthy. In actuality, Artemis, it is wasteful <em>not</em> to spend your money, no?”</p>
<p>Entreri just sighed. “Until a disaster leaves you destitute.”</p>
<p>Entreri hated this too, the way Jarlaxle looked at him like he was a puzzle to be solved, hated the way even now, years later, Jarlaxle could <em>see</em> him, the way no one else ever had. Or maybe “hate” wasn’t the word.</p>
<p>“Ah. I see.” Jarlaxle patted his arm, still pressed close to him. “After knowing true hunger, one would understandably never want to experience it again.” Entreri set his jaw against those words and the chord they struck. “Like this morning. Truer hunger, I have never known.”</p>
<p>“You had breakfast before we left.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but that was whole <em>hours</em> ago!”</p>
<p>Entreri rolled his eyes, but Jarlaxle’s chuckle always lit a warmth in his chest.</p>
<p>“Worry not, <em>mal’ai</em>,” Jarlaxle said, voice soft and intimately close to Artemis’ ear. “As long as you are with me, the only hunger you will feel is for my delectable body.”</p>
<p>“And which part of you should I eat first?” Entreri said, shouldering past the vulnerable ache those words put in his heart. “The ribs? The meat is sparse there.”</p>
<p>“The loin, clearly.” Jarlaxle winked. “Plenty of meat there.”</p>
<p>Entreri knew he should have seen that coming.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for taking so long to update. Been a bit overwhelmed.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today, Jarlaxle was determined to right a great wrong: the Grand Dukes of Baldur’s Gate were throwing the ball of the year, and he had not been invited.</p>
<p>But he supposed that did not matter since, today, he wasn’t Jarlaxle but rather Eli Alibakkar, a minor human noble from Athkatla with blue eyes and dashing brown curls. Today, his hat was a less ostentatious brown, and Agatha’s Mask was a familiar weight upon his skin.</p>
<p>The Great Hall was cavernous, and columns connected floor to ceiling like polished, elegant stalagmites. At his feet, polished marble glinted with torchlight, and all the wealth of stone reminded him of home. Exchange the wall’s vine-like relief with a spiderweb, and Jarlaxle could imagine he stood in House Baenre.</p>
<p>He shook away the thought and the phantom sensation of spider-legs crawling up his arm. He plucked a white wine from the tray—drier than he preferred, but he liked the lightness of it—and mingled with the crowd, his smile a second mask as he plucked threads of gossip from the air.</p>
<p>In this moment, among the idle scandals of the pampered nobility, Jarlaxle could imagine things were back to the way they were before the Spellplague had ravished Faerûn. His silver whistle, imbued with psionics rather than magic, burned hot against his skin for a moment, but he ignored it. Kimmuriel could wait.</p>
<p>“I must inquire as to her jeweler,” one noblewoman said into her wine, her double-horned headdress dangerously close to the sconces. “That necklace is exquisite.”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle followed her line of sight to Grand Duchess Jannath. Rubies hung like dewdrops around her neck and collarbones, a stunning match to her blood-red lips. Jarlaxle’s hand twitched towards an eyepatch that wasn’t there, but he didn’t need his eyepatch to tell the necklace was magic.</p>
<p>“Intriguing,” he murmured. Magic items of quality were difficult to find now. Much of his own arsenal had been rendered useless, and he grieved to think of the gold lost in such a wreckage.</p>
<p>Was this a new acquisition, and from where?</p>
<p>Jarlaxle was halfway across the room to introduce himself when a more arresting figure caught his eye. Amid all the pageantry, Artemis Entreri cut a dark and pleasing figure in his finery, his only ornament the jeweled dagger at his hip. The simplicity served only to highlight his natural handsomeness, the cleanshaven cut of his jaw and piercing gray eyes. Jarlaxle knew his weren’t the only admiring eyes, but Artemis, as always, was either unaware or outright hostile to anyone who stared at him too long.</p>
<p>Jarlaxle glided over to the column Artemis leaned against, plucking up a second glass of wine on the way.</p>
<p>“And what’s <em>your</em> name, handsome?” Jarlaxle purred, taking on an Amnian accent as he offered the second glass to Artemis.</p>
<p>Artemis gave him a look that was first annoyed, then exasperated. The way he looked at Jarlaxle’s disguised hat and rolled his eyes said he hadn’t been fooled for a moment—but then Jarlaxle hadn’t expected him to be. Artemis took the wine and sighed, “Hello, Jarlaxle.”</p>
<p>“Eli Alibakkar, at your service!” Jarlaxle introduced himself, complete with a bow and a flourish of his hat. Artemis looked around in tight-shouldered discomfort at the attention Jarlaxle was drawing. “But you may call me Eli, of course. Or any other number of things.” He gave Artemis a lewd wink.</p>
<p>“Do not worry. I know plenty of things to call you,” Artemis grated out. “Where is he?”</p>
<p>Innocently, “Who?”</p>
<p>Artemis gave him a flat look.</p>
<p>Jarlaxle huffed and gestured flippantly with his free hand. “<em>He</em> is either very fashionably late or not coming after all, it seems. How long have you been here?”</p>
<p>Artemis’ expression darkened as he glanced back at the door. “Not long. You?”</p>
<p>“An hour, give or take. Or perhaps longer. That violinist is perfectly entrancing.”</p>
<p>Artemis drained his glass. “Half an hour. That is as long as I will give it. If he is not here by then, I will officially consider this a waste of my time.”</p>
<p>“Impatient,” Jarlaxle tutted. “Perhaps the ball is simply an alibi. If we find out his actual plans—”</p>
<p>“This job is beneath us, as it is,” Artemis hissed. “I am not chasing some fat noble around the city just because his wife thinks he’s cheating on her. He probably is, and the last thing my eyes need is to walk in on <em>proof</em> of that. Why are we here?”</p>
<p>“For fine wine and finer food, <em>mal’ai</em>.” Jarlaxle slipped an arm around Artemis’ waist. “And finest company.”</p>
<p>Entreri sneered. “A dung beetle would make finer company than these,” he groused, gesturing around at the nobles pretending the world hadn’t been turned upside down.</p>
<p>A dwarven singer in a shimmering gown took up a haunting melody counterpoint to the violin as Jarlaxle tried to steer his partner’s mood back to something more agreeable.</p>
<p>“Shall we?” Jarlaxle purred, head tilted towards the expanse of marble floor filling with dancing couples.</p>
<p>“I don’t dance.”</p>
<p>“You certainly can!”</p>
<p>“Of course I <em>can</em>. I simply won’t.”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle chuffed, took the empty glass from Artemis’ hand and set both glasses down on the nearest surface. “Grand Duchess Jannath is charming, I hear,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the column, his hat at an angle to obscure his face from everyone except Artemis. “Very charming.”</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“She has the most marvelous ruby necklace… Do you remember that ruby medallion, Artemis? The one Regis stole from Pasha Pook? I wonder if it has a twin… Hers certainly has <em>some</em> sort of magic. Is that how she’s been swaying the other dukes to her side, I wonder?”</p>
<p>Artemis gave him a flat look. “We are not stealing from the Grand Duchess.”</p>
<p>“I have to wonder if it—hmm?”</p>
<p>“We are not stealing from the Grand Duchess,” he said again.</p>
<p>“Whyever not?”</p>
<p>Entreri pinned him with a scowl.</p>
<p>Jarlaxle huffed and flapped a hand in Artemis’ direction. “You are no fun.”</p>
<p>“You are an idiot. And you have enough magic trinkets to play with.”</p>
<p>“Never!” Jarlaxle protested. “And certainly not now!”</p>
<p>Entreri didn’t blink.</p>
<p>“Very well. Then you had best find a way to keep my hands occupied. So I ask again: shall we?” Jarlaxle held out a hand, waggling his fingers.</p>
<p>With a disgruntled look, Entreri took his hand and allowed himself to be led out onto the dance floor. Jarlaxle grinned when Entreri’s hand found his waist and pulled him close, expertly steering them both.</p>
<p>“Who is the man with Jannath?” Artemis asked, his voice a pleasing rumble in Jarlaxle’s ear.</p>
<p>“I thought we weren’t plotting anything?” Jarlaxle asked with a wicked smile.</p>
<p>“We are not,” Entreri assured him. “But I do not recognize him, and he keeps staring this way.”</p>
<p>“Well, my ass is rather appealing.”</p>
<p>“I meant at <em>me</em>, before you came over.”</p>
<p>“Well, <em>your</em> ass is rather appealing.”</p>
<p>“<em>Jarlaxle.</em>”</p>
<p>“Artemis.”</p>
<p>Entreri sighed and rolled his eyes, steering them so that Jarlaxle could see the Grand Duchess over his shoulder. The man next to her was older, with white hair and dark, sumptuous robes. His skin was corpse-pale, but the shadows clung to him even on the open floor. He’d only seen that with…</p>
<p>“Oh,” Jarlaxle breathed.</p>
<p>“What?” Artemis grew tense under Jarlaxle’s hand.</p>
<p>The man looked back at them, eyes meeting Jarlaxle’s for a moment, and he smiled and raised his glass before turning back to the Grand Duchess.</p>
<p>“He’s Shadovar,” Jarlaxle said right in Entreri’s ear. “From Netheril.”</p>
<p>News of Netheril had torn through the city weeks ago, with outrageous claims that a floating city had appeared over the Anauroch desert as if from nothing, the Shadow Realm merging again with Faerûn. The last time Jarlaxle had encountered someone claiming to be Netherese, he had made the mistake of trying to hunt Artemis Entreri, searching for a Netherese artifact, Charon’s Claw, and had met the expected end. After draining his soul via vampiric dagger, Entreri himself had taken on Shade-like attributes.</p>
<p>“Where is your sword?” Jarlaxle asked, speaking as softly as he could. “Well-hidden?”</p>
<p>“Bag of Holding,” Artemis replied in kind. Jarlaxle felt the fine stitching of the glove on Artemis’ right hand, grateful that the Bags still worked, at least. “We should go.”</p>
<p>“Relax, <em>mal’ai</em>,” Jarlaxle soothed. “He is clearly here in a diplomatic fashion. You have likely drawn his interest because you look like a Shade. I will go introduce myself, and—”</p>
<p>“Jarlaxle, I do not like this. Our target does not show up, but this Shade does? We should go.”</p>
<p>“Trust me, <em>abbil</em>.”</p>
<p>Jarlaxle slipped a hand down, patting Artemis’ ass just to watch that look of disgruntled embarrassment pass over his face, and then pulled away under the pretense of grabbing another drink. He passed by the tables closest to Jannath and her Shade guest, and he felt the Shade turn to watch him as he pretended not to notice. He was unsurprised when the Shade glided over to pluck another glass himself.</p>
<p>“Are you enjoying your stay in Baldur’s Gate, Master…?” Jarlaxle prompted, again adopting an Amnian accent.</p>
<p>“Quick. Draygo Quick.” Quick saluted him with a charming smile and a raise of his glass. “And yes. This city is certainly full of splendors! You are the young man from Amn, yes?”</p>
<p>“Eli Alibakkar, at your service.” Jarlaxle dipped into a bow and a flourish, sweeping his hat off and then back onto his head. “I admit, I thought you would be more interested in introducing yourself to my companion…” He trailed off meaningfully with a knowing, cheeky smile.</p>
<p>That startled an embarrassed laugh out of Quick. “Ah yes. I admit the man you were dancing with was rather striking, but I take it he is already spoken for?”</p>
<p>“For tonight, at least,” Jarlaxle said with a coy smile.</p>
<p>“Then my apologies. I had meant no offense.”</p>
<p>“None was taken. He is rather delightful to stare at, from any angle.”</p>
<p>Quick laughed and simply saluted him again, wisely staying silent on that.</p>
<p>“Is it true?” Jarlaxle asked, sidling just a bit closer. “That you are from Netheril? The floating city?”</p>
<p>“You are well-informed, Master Alibakkar.”</p>
<p>“Eli, please. And I do have a rather shameful ear for gossip, I’m afraid. What brings you to Baldur’s Gate?”</p>
<p>“Partly simple curiosity. I have not had the opportunity until recently.”</p>
<p>“And the rest?”</p>
<p>“I am reaching out to some of our new neighbors, and the Grand Dukes have been most hospitable. Amn, on the other hand, is a bit far, but I would love to learn more about it, in the name of friendship between our regions.”</p>
<p>“But of course,” Jarlaxle agreed. “I admit to some curiosity myself.”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you join the Grand Duchess and myself for lunch tomorrow? We can sate each other’s curiosity, and I think you will find a friendship with Netheril to be a particularly lucrative one.” Quick held out a hand for Jarlaxle to shake, and Jarlaxle could not help but notice the rings glinting on his fingers, heavy with magic.</p>
<p>Of course. The Netherese were known for their artifacts, but a city simply appearing out of nowhere could look like an act of aggression if any ruffled feathers were not smoothed. Quick was feeling for allies.</p>
<p>“I would be delighted,” Jarlaxle said, shaking that hand, eyeing those rings and wondering if they could, indeed, work something out.</p>
<p>Even so, he was relieved that Charon’s Claw was well-hidden within Artemis’ gauntlet.</p>
<p>“Now if you will excuse me,” Quick said, dipping into a short bow, “the Grand Duchess has need of me, it seems.”</p>
<p>“Of course. This was a pleasure.” Jarlaxle smiled amiably and watched him return to the Grand Duchess, giving her the wine glass that dangled from his fingertips. He said something to her that made her titter, a polite sort of empty laugh most nobles had perfected.</p>
<p>The wine sat pleasantly warm in Jarlaxle’s stomach, a gentle looseness settling in his limbs. He searched for Artemis in the crowd, but the man was either well-hidden or had decided to leave.</p>
<p>No matter. Jarlaxle was perfectly capable of entertaining himself. Or of entertaining that pretty young thing in the scandalous cream gown… He paused when Kimmuriel’s whistle burned hot against his skin again, only to take the thing off and stash it in his vest pocket.</p>
<p>He could work later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The night was a kaleidoscope of shadows. A fog had rolled in off the water and made the cobblestones glisten with damp. Entreri’s nightvision could pierce shadows but not mist, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see shapes moving in the dark. He listened for footfalls, hand tight on his dagger, but if the shadows were anything more than a trick of the light, they drew no closer.</p>
<p>Entreri took the long way back to their apartment, a cozy little space above the bakery that Jarlaxle was so fond of. It was tucked into the shadow of the city’s inner walls, away from the watchful eyes of the Flaming Fist and a long walk from the Duchal Palace. A part of him wished something would attack just so he could have an outlet for the vibrating tension between his shoulders, but perhaps Jarlaxle was right. Perhaps the Shade’s presence had nothing to do with him or Charon’s Claw. Perhaps it was just a coincidence.</p>
<p>He still locked and trapped the door behind him. Entreri hadn’t lived as long as he had by believing in coincidences.</p>
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